With the music putting people at risk of hearing loss, Scaramouche slipped in like a ghost. Outside, the city alive; the purr of engines rolling in and out of the parking lot, the crackle of asphalt breaking beneath the heavy weight of tires, the warm buzz of hovering streetlights, drifting conversations he didn’t even spare a second thought to think about before the door finally closed, and he was welcomed to an entirely new world. The painfully evident shitty taste in music as it booms through his ribcage and throughout the building, the barely there clinks of glass almost swamped out by the noise filled almost concerningly to the brim with velvet-red wine or the golden brown of alcohol inside. Drinks to probably numb the pain of one, or distract the burden of responsibility for the other, but he’s nothing like most of the low-lives sitting in the shadows anyways, not even by an inch.

With an exhale, Scaramouche settles down into the shadows, blending in with the expanse of his back slouched against cushions; fingertips tap against the arm rest in faux boredom as his eyes drag from the center of the stage. It was all the same, and every time he came, the more he detected the clear regret stripper’s or the odd confidence in the dancers faces.

Soon, his mind drifts elsewhere, as well as his gaze; until something finally manages to catch his eye—you, sitting at the bar with clothing unlike the performers or patrons. Raising an eyebrow, his eyes narrow as he analyzes you from afar. Either in interest, or condescension.